


The Après-Ski Affair

by Saki101



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E., The Man From U.N.C.L.E., The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:09:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saki101/pseuds/Saki101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can one ever really retire from UNCLE?</p><p>Excerpt:  “You always managed to avoid the winter training exercises, didn’t you?” Illya said.</p><p>Napoleon nodded thoughtfully.  “Never realised quite how wise I was,” he said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Après-Ski Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sparky955](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparky955/gifts).



> Fic for Sparky's prompt: Napoleon and Illya's first Christmas after their retirement from UNCLE (including slash and an established relationship).

The grey canopy of clouds was thinning, luminous patches hinting at the midday sun, when Illya turned off the highway. Napoleon eyed the high banks of snow narrowing the secondary road to a single lane and consulted once more the map spread across his lap. The even fainter line indicating their next turn did little to reassure him. He glanced at the firm set of Illya’s jaw and decided not to try to extract any further information about their destination. Napoleon’s eyes dropped lower and narrowed at a familiar bulge under Illya’s jacket.

“You brought your Special?” Napoleon asked.

“Bears,” Illya said and pulled the steering wheel sharply to the right. The angle at which they climbed over the snow bank sent a familiar rush through Napoleon’s blood. UNCLE’s version of an off-road vehicle satisfied Illya’s standards for traction and maneuverability and a faint smile lifted his lips. 

“You’re enjoying this,” Napoleon accused.

“I believe that is the purpose of a vacation,” Illya replied. They jolted down the other side and ground through the snow between the trees. Napoleon surmised they must be on a dirt road winding through the woods. He couldn’t see how Illya was managing to follow it under all the snow.

“You’re just avoiding the tree trunks, aren’t you?” Napoleon asked.

“There’s a cliff up ahead,” Illya said in reply. “Straight drop to the lake.”

Napoleon decided to fold the map. He opened the glove compartment and dropped it in. The handle of a large hunting knife gleamed in its recesses.

“Planning on skinning the bears?” Napoleon asked, as he clicked the compartment shut.

“If necessary,” Illya replied.

Napoleon looked up at the trees arching over them. Through the bare limbs of the deciduous ones, he caught glimpses of blue sky. A breeze was shifting the upper branches, spattering light snow against the windshield.

“It’ll be clear this evening,” Napoleon observed. “Colder.”

“Mm,” Illya said, his eyes straight ahead. 

Napoleon hadn’t spotted any sign of a lodge yet and the fact that Illya had insisted on packing the vehicle alone gained significance. Napoleon recalled the smirk with which Illya had tossed his suitcase on top of whatever was stowed in the back under a tarpaulin.

Illya turned sharply left, the vehicle fish-tailing ever so slightly in the soft snow. Napoleon’s shoulder bumped the side of the door. 

“Be careful when you get out,” Illya said, setting the handbrake. He opened his door and slid down. 

Napoleon rubbed his shoulder and slowly pushed his door outward, the drifted snow impeding its progress. His leg had sunk nearly to his knee in it before his foot hit bottom. Keeping one gloved hand on the door, Napoleon put his full weight on it. When the ground remained firm, he stepped down fully and surveyed his surroundings. A yard or so in front of him, the undulating snow gave way to an open sky. Only a few clouds remained scattered across the blue expanse. Napoleon held onto the open door and took a cautious step forward. His foot crunched through the snow to mid-calf and the farther reaches of a frozen lake came into view, its glimmering shoreline undefaced by a single house or curl of smoke.

“Where are we?” Napoleon asked, certain that he had not dozed off at any point and that no aircraft had been involved in the journey.

“You always managed to avoid the winter training exercises, didn’t you?” Illya said.

Napoleon nodded thoughtfully. “Never realised quite how wise I was,” he said.

“Better late than never,” Illya replied. Napoleon looked over his shoulder and saw Illya dragging something long wrapped in silver quilting off the roof.

“How did I not notice those?” Napoleon asked, making his way with high steps around to the back of the vehicle.

“I might have added those after you were in the car,” Illya said and smiled. “I saw what you packed. You were thinking of skiing or at least ski-wear.”

Napoleon watched Illya unwrapping the cross-country skis and the poles. “Are those even out of the testing stage?” Napoleon asked, noting the metal fittings on the back of each ski. Illya’s smile grew brighter. “We’re supposed to be retired, Illya, remember? They had a party and everything. Gold watches may have been involved.”

“A good deal of champagne and a number of women half your age fawning over you, may have been involved, so you may not have noticed that the Section VIII gifts were more interesting than watches.” Illya sat on the tailgate of the jeep and fastened on one ski. “Although they enhanced the watches with a number of commendable features, if I do say so myself.”

“OK,” Napoleon said, sitting next to Illya. “Retiring from UNCLE isn’t exactly the same as retiring from an insurance company. How do you get these to stay on?”

“Give me your leg,” Illya said and Napoleon swung it up onto his lap. “At least it’s not like retiring from THRUSH.”

*** 

The light breeze was creating the illusion of intermittent snow flurries as it whisked some of the previous night’s snow from the trees. Napoleon peered up through the tangle of bare and evergreen branches at the brilliant sky and smiled.

“The air is like a butterfly with frail blue wings. The happy earth looks at the sky and sings,” he recited. Ice gleamed in the forks of the high branches. Napoleon fancied it was the sky smiling back.

“Do you wish to sing, Napoleon?” Illya asked.

Napoleon turned to find Illya hooking something else to his backpack and grinning. “I’m trying to think if I know a song about the love of gadgetry?” he said.

“Singing is good for keeping time on a long trek,” Illya replied.

Napoleon’s smile dimmed slightly as he tried to gauge to what extent Illya was teasing. “How far _is_ it to the lodge?” Napoleon asked, adjusting the shoulder strap of his huge, but remarkably light, backpack. He suspected that Illya had filled it with the bulky, but lighter, elements of their supplies and Napoleon had only added a few small, but essential, items from his suitcase while Illya was adjusting the fastenings on his skis.

Illya slammed the rear of the vehicle shut and looked up, his smile incandescent. “Who said anything about a lodge?”

*** 

Napoleon followed Illya as he zigzagged through the trees, gliding over fallen logs and undergrowth tamed to a billowy smoothness by a couple feet of snow. Now and then Illya would drop out of sight down a gentle slope and Napoleon would pause until he caught sight of him again, the white of the ski suit sometimes requiring that he squint to catch a movement or the glint of sun on the aluminium frame of the white backpack. 

He’d kept fit, if for no other reason than to keep up with Illya, but decades of too little sleep and too many responsibilities had left their mark. To himself, Napoleon didn’t try to deny it, but he avoided admitting it aloud. A shimmer of light revealed Illya’s location and Napoleon pushed forward and down the declivity between the trees. His form was still good. Downhill racing was more his style than cross-country though; the rush down a mountain and the exertions of après-ski. Napoleon smiled and pushed a little harder with his ski poles.

*** 

They had been skirting the escarpment for nearly two hours when Illya drew closer to the cliff edge and stopped. Napoleon halted behind him, still not seeing anything resembling a habitation or even the camouflaged entrance to one. The sun was low in the sky, its slanting rays turning the lake below them to a sheet of gold. Napoleon waited to see if Illya had only paused for the view of the lake and would move on or if the entrance to the shelter was eluding his detection. Pirates and smoke trails occurred to him. He scrutinised the ground for melted snow. Something about the day had turned him fanciful.

“You’re looking in the wrong direction,” Illya said. Napoleon glanced at him and Illya broke into a radiant smile and pointed up. Napoleon’s brows drew together as his eyes rose into the spreading branches of a mighty cedar tree. He thought he could discern a dark shape blocking a bit of the sky glowing between the red bark and the sprays of evergreen, but he wasn't sure.

The words, _you’re joking_ were on the tip of Napoleon’s tongue, but there was that glint in Illya’s eyes which was so clearly a dare, that Napoleon forbore. “So, is there an elevator in that trunk or do these backpacks have jets?” he asked instead.

“Different model,” Illya said, giving the side of his backpack a pat. “No elevator,” he added as though the idea wasn’t totally out of the question.

Napoleon didn’t rise to the bait, just waited for the explanation or demonstration which was sure to come. It was the latter. He heard a small snap and watched Illya pull something long from the tubed frame of the backpack. The rope was thin and white and Napoleon wondered whether climbing was going to be added to the day's activities. 

Illya checked that the four-pronged hook at the end of the rope was secure and gave Napoleon a sideways glance as he let the stainless steel barbs dangle from his hand. The metal caught the light as it swung past Napoleon’s shadow. The flex of Illya’s wrist was barely detectable through the layers of clothing. Napoleon found himself watching the slight shift in fabric, waiting for the answering metallic gleam. The arc of the weighted rope grew wider. Napoleon stepped back. Illya looked up into the cedar and sighted. _At least we’re going up rather than over the edge of the cliff. It’s a lot further down,_ Napoleon thought.

  


He stepped through the gap in the low railing around the platform, unbuckled his backpack and leaned it against a barrel taking pride of place on the wooden floor. Kneeling, Napoleon reached around the hatch Illya had pulled open to release a rope ladder, unhooked the grapple from the ring there. Napoleon stared down. Through the tiers of branches, the white of Illya’s ski suit was nearly invisible against the snow and shadows. 

There was a flicker of light. Illya moved out of the shade, pushed back his hood and peered upwards. “Let it fall,” he said. Napoleon released the hook. It landed silently, the rope coiling over it at Illya's feet, closer than Napoleon would have preferred, but his hand had simply opened when Illya said to. Trusting in Illya's precise calculations had become a reflex.

Napoleon watched Illya begin his ascent before walking the few paces to the further edge of the platform. The sky was streaked with pink and orange, the frozen lake aflame. Napoleon leaned slightly over the railing and glanced down. Instinctively, his arm grasped the branch above him. The cedar’s limbs extended beyond the cliff, affording a view of the whole lake, the southern curve of the escarpment and the cliff face directly below them. The effect was dizzying. He heard the clatter of the rope ladder being pulled up. “Where are we now?”

“Sentry platform for the training exercises. Observation deck for the ice manoeuvres on the lake,” Illya replied. There was a slight scrap as his backpack settled on the flooring. 

“Quite a panorama,” Napoleon said. “Would definitely weed out agents with acrophobia.” He turned back to Illya. “What’s in the keg?”

“Water,” Illya replied, rapping the side. “There’s a heating element above the tap in case it freezes.”

“Are we honorary judges for night manoeuvres, then?” 

Napoleon watched the corner of Illya’s lips lift. “No one’s here. They’re between training sessions.” He undid the silver roll strapped to the bottom of Napoleon’s pack and began unfolding it. “We could return another time though, since you’ve never seen them.”

Napoleon had both his hands on the branch above him. He leaned forward, weight mostly on his arms and smiled. “Skeet shooting?” he asked in his smoothest tone.

This time, Illya chuckled. Napoleon leaned a little closer; he liked the sound. It presaged danger as often as amusement, but it always heralded something interesting. 

“No,” Illya said, his smile shaping the sound. He swatted at Napoleon’s ankles. Napoleon lifted up both feet and hung from the branch for several seconds longer than it took Illya to smooth the silvery fabric beneath them and on to the edge of the platform.

When he set his feet back down, he drew in a deep breath as quietly as he could. “Abseiling?” Napoleon asked.

Illya had reached the cask of water. He tipped it on edge, rolled it onto a covered part of the floor and continued spreading the fabric into the final corner. “No,” he replied, sitting down cross-legged facing Napoleon. Illya pulled Napoleon’s backpack towards him and began detaching the aluminium frame. 

The light had turned ruddy and the matte silver of the fabric turned with it. Napoleon crouched, slipped off a glove and brushed his hand over the material. Concentric shadows rippled across the groundsheet. The temperature was dropping fast; he slid his hand back in his glove. “I give up. What is it we're doing here?” he asked, stuffing both his hands in his pockets.

Illya was expanding the telescoped aluminium tubing from Napoleon’s backpack into long poles. Illya looked up, one eyebrow raised. “So easily, Napoleon?” he asked quietly, eyelids lowering. It felt like a cool breeze had passed over the warm skin beneath Napoleon's ski suit. Illya saw the shiver. “Hold this for a moment,” he said and Napoleon moved to hold up the slim rod. Illya elongated several more sections of tubing. As he snapped each one in place and stepped away, Napoleon stepped forward to hold the new segment steady. By the time they had constructed a frame around the platform, the light had faded to lavender and Napoleon was humming the tune of a tango.

Illya turned away, kneeling by his backpack. Napoleon’s eyes followed the lithe movements which seemed those of a much younger man. Napoleon wondered if Illya seemed younger because he hadn’t aged whenever they were apart, as if those days or weeks hadn’t counted, as though only their time together counted. _A strange fancy._ Napoleon looked away and shook his head. 

“There,” Illya said. Napoleon glanced up to see a small lantern glowing like a tiny sun in the centre of the platform. “It’s for heat, too,” Illya explained. “The light can be extinguished completely like this.” He twisted his wrist and shutters gradually covered the light until not a glimmer remained. 

The darkness was complete until Napoleon’s eyes adjusted to the dusk again. By then, he could feel a hint of warmth on his face. “Shouldn’t we wait until the tent is pitched to turn on the heat?” Napoleon asked.

“I saw you shiver,” Illya said. “Thin blood,” he added, patting Napoleon’s shoulder as he walked past.

“Hot blood,” Napoleon corrected. He glimpsed the brief smile before Illya turned away. 

“We’ll have to list that among the testing conditions,“ Illya said, crouching in the southeast corner and untying the rolled fabric at the edge of the groundsheet. “Grab the other end.”

“Testing?” Napoleon asked, undoing the straps and gathering the featherlight material in his hands.

“Of the prototype equipment we have with us,” Illya replied, without turning.

Napoleon was sure Illya was accurately picturing the expression on his face nevertheless.

*** 

Napoleon lowered his flute of champagne and opened his mouth for the last bit of paté Illya was holding out to him. He tried to capture all of it so as not to leave crumbs on the sleeping bags and got the tips of Illya’s fingers as well. 

“I’ll be needing those to uncork the wine, unless you prefer to do the honours,” Illya said.

Napoleon tightened his lips as Illya drew his fingers away. The foie gras had been delicious. He left the final morsel on his tongue for a moment before swallowing and took a sip of champagne before answering. “You go ahead,” Napoleon murmured. They had had vodka with the caviar and champagne with the paté, Illya downing most of the former and Napoleon most of the latter. The lack of a roaring blaze in a stone fireplace with a well-stocked cellar beneath it was becoming increasingly inconsequential. “I’m afraid to ask what comes next,” he said.

“Don’t, then,” Illya replied, easing a dark bottle out of his backpack. “When it’s finished breathing, just close your eyes and see if you can tell me what it is.”

Napoleon nodded and upended the crystal clear glass in his hand. He snapped his fingernail against the rim, noted the absence of a chime, held the empty flute closer to the lantern. “This isn’t glass,” he observed.

“It wouldn’t serve if you wanted to dash it into a hearth,” Illya replied, his answer punctuated by the soft pop of the wine cork.

“Really?” 

“Try, if you like,” Illya said, setting the wine aside. The blade of the hunting knife flashed as he cut the strings on three small bundles. “The water cask should be all right.” 

Napoleon sat up and flung his arm out to the side. There was a dull thud. He didn’t bother to stand, simply crawled the few feet to retrieve the glass, ran his hand over the side of the metal barrel, the dent in its side definite, but not too deep. The flute didn’t have a crack. “What’s this to be used for?” Napoleon asked.

“Bullet- and blast-proof materials. It’s light and it doesn’t decrease or distort visibility,” Illya replied. “It’s malleable, so it doesn’t limit design as much as the usual inelastic materials and doesn’t shatter upon impact, so it can be reused.” Illya gestured with the hunting knife. “As you see.” Napoleon could smell the pear Illya was slicing. “I can demonstrate the other property outside tomorrow. I wouldn’t want a bullet ricocheting around the tent.”

“You mean the tent is made of the same thing?” Napoleon asked as he crawled back to his sleeping bag by the lantern.

Illya nodded. “The inner layer,” Illya said, his knife cutting into the skin of an apple. “The outer layer is for camouflage. It mimics light patterns and absorbs heat.”

“In here, we wouldn’t show up on a heat sensor?” Napoleon asked.

Illya speared an apple slice and extended the blade to Napoleon. “Not if it’s well-sealed and working properly,” Illya replied. Napoleon bent forward and grasped the apple with his teeth. Slowly, Illya withdrew the knife.

 

Chestnuts were warming in a white bowl next to the lantern, the nuts’ aroma filling the tent. Napoleon was stretched out, head cushioned on his bunched up ski suit, wine glass balanced on his stomach. “I don’t suppose the dish is going to explode next to the heat like that,” he asked.

Illya shook his head. “If all the tests are successful, that ceramic will insulate the rocket thrusters when the new UNCLE communications satellite is launched this summer. It will definitely withstand the lantern on the current heat setting,” Illya replied. “There are higher settings, of course, for melting steel, for example, but we won’t be needing that tonight.”

“I’ll leave temperature control to you, then,” Napoleon said and took another sip of his wine. “I wouldn’t want to accidentally barbeque us.” He picked up the last piece of castelmagno from a small blue plate by his side and held it out to Illya.

“Go ahead,” Illya said and ate the last slice of pear. He poked the chestnuts' shells with the tip of his knife. “These are nearly done.”

The cheese disappeared into Napoleon's mouth. Gently, he placed a finger on the empty plate. “What does this do?”

Illya rolled onto his stomach and reached out to tap Napoleon’s hand. “Your instincts are always excellent,” he said. “This one does explode.” One of the chestnut shells cracked. Napoleon sat up. “Not from heat though. I’ll show you later.” Napoleon finished his wine. Illya took the glass, filled it with water and handed it back to Napoleon. “We have cognac for the chestnuts and the chocolates,” Illya said, taking the blue plate and stepping to the far side of the tent. 

“Are you plying me with alcohol, Mr Kuryakin?” Napoleon enquired.

“Is there a need?” Illya asked. The soft growl of a large zip was followed by an icy tendril of air. Illya reached up, unhooked the outer layer of camouflage and draped it over the railing. “Douse the lantern,” Illya said, fastening one tent flap open. He sent the plate spinning high into the moonlit night. As it began to arc downwards, he aimed his Special and a fireball with a blazing tail finished the descent towards the lake below.

“That’s likely to disturb the fish,” Napoleon said.

“It will be nearly burnt out before it hits the ice,” Illya replied, resealing the flap. He lingered by the tent wall. As the afterimage faded, the moon and the stars became visible through the clear material, the sky blocked in places by boughs of cedar and Illya’s silhouette. 

Napoleon navigated his way around their belongings by the light of the night sky and the feel of his stocking feet. He rested his hands on Illya’s shoulders. “You realise we’re between the woods and frozen lake, the darkest evening of the year…nearly anyway,” Napoleon said. Illya nodded. “For the most part, we’ve kept our promises and we’re still here…against all the odds.”

Illya turned his head, the moon brightening one side of his face. “We’re good at beating the odds,” he said. 

Behind them, several chestnut shells cracked further open. “You did promise me cognac with those,” Napoleon murmured.

Illya huffed. “Not pliant enough yet?” he asked.

“Not quite.” 

*** 

When Napoleon awoke, his face was half buried in a soft pile of clothing, a familiar weight pillowed on his left thigh. He shifted slightly. 

“The moon’s set,” Illya said.

Napoleon opened his eyes and turned towards the sky. Over the lake, the stars sparkled, beautiful and far away. His hand found Illya’s head, brushed over the soft hair and came to rest on his thigh by Illya’s ear. 

“Depending on the moon, we’d go out in the evening or get up before dawn to go down to the woods. My grandmother would wrap me up in so many layers of wool, I could hardly walk. When I was very small, she would carry me. She would tell me about that as we walked through the snow, her hand firm around my wrist, and she would tell me about how she had gone as a child with her grandparents to pick the tree, to find the special one to cut for each year.”

Napoleon heard Illya take a deep breath and held his own. The desire to reminisce rarely seized Illya. He took a long drink of something. Napoleon couldn’t tell if it was vodka or water.

“By the time I was born, we didn't cut a tree, but every winter we would still go searching for the special one. On a clear night, after the moon set. I remember checking the sky a hundred times during the day to see if we could go on our walk that night or would have to wait another day.”

Napoleon felt the warmth of Illya’s skin through his fingertips, resisted the urge to stroke his long hair.

“The moon would shine over the treetops as we approached, through the branches once we were in the woods. We’d walk until we found our tree and then we’d wait. I was often in the woods during the day, but it was a different place at night. We’d hear the owls calling; some years we’d see one swoop between the trees.” Illya took another drink. “And when the moon sank behind the hills and the forest had grown darker, the stars would brighten and we’d watch them shine through the branches of our tree.” Napoleon felt Illya’s shoulder muscles move against his leg as he gestured towards the sky. “Like that.”

“Thank you,” Napoleon said.

“You like our tree for this year?” Illya asked.

Napoleon rolled onto his side, his hand slipping down to Illya's shoulder. “Do I have to rub snow on my skin in the morning instead of showering?”

“You can heat up enough water to shave afterwards,” Illya said, "and I can turn the lantern up a notch.

“Get into the sleeping bag while I consider,” Napoleon said. 

Illya did, pulling up the zip after him, his face still turned towards the stars. Napoleon curled around his cool back, bent his knees to fit behind Illya’s. “Will it help if I rub the snow on you?” Illya asked.

Napoleon pondered. “Is there anything else I should know?” he asked.

“There’s a storm coming in a few hours,” Illya replied. Napoleon drew in a breath. “I have enough provisions in the jeep for several days.”

“Akin to our dinner fare?” Napoleon queried.

“Yes.”

Napoleon felt Illya’s muscles relaxing against him. “We’re getting too old for this, you know,” Napoleon murmured.

“Never,” Illya said. “And you haven't seen what else the skis can do.” 

Napoleon was quiet.

“If we broke camp now, we could make it to some hotel off the highway before the storm hit,” Illya offered.

Napoleon pictured riding in the jeep while Illya drove between the trees in the dark and snuggled against Illya’s back. “There’s cognac left?” 

“Plenty,” Illya said. "And the food for breakfast is in my backpack."

“The hotels would probably be full of stranded motorists,” Napoleon murmured, tightening his arm around Illya’s chest. “This is a fine place to spend Christmas.”

Illya pinned Napoleon's arm against his skin. Napoleon was certain Illya was smiling.

~~~~~~~

**Author's Note:**

> Poems quoted or referenced:
> 
>  _The Air Is Like a Butterfly_ by Joyce Kilmer
> 
>  _Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening_ by Robert Frost


End file.
